


I Got All The Riches, Baby, One Man Can Claim

by athriax



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Happy Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athriax/pseuds/athriax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door shuts with the heavy thud of all five locks engaging and Bond finally lets himself relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got All The Riches, Baby, One Man Can Claim

**Author's Note:**

> A self indulgent snippet of a huge overarching headcanon in which Bond and Q fall in love and have three kids and live happily ever after. There is a potential for additional timestamps later. Maybe. Unbetaed, so if there are any horrendous errors, my bad yo. 
> 
> For Iva, who is well on her way to world domination, and without whom there would be no Bond clan.

 

 

 ~♠~

  

The door shuts with the heavy thud of all five locks engaging and Bond finally lets himself relax.

The permanent adrenaline high of the job bleeds out of him in the quiet of the flat. The floorboards are drenched in rare, wintery London sunlight. Dust motes drift gently through the beams.

He toes his shoes off, drops his Walther into the tray on the sideboard, and begins the arduous task of easing his suit jacket and shoulder holster down over his recently relocated shoulder.

His muscles ache in protest and the coppery taste of pain and exhaustion sit at the back of his tongue like an old penny.

He'd hoped Q might be curled up on the settee beneath the window, cat sprawled in his lap, hair wild, book propped against the windowsill and lost to the world when he returned. The image had gotten him through three connecting flights and a hellish layover in Bucharest.

But, the sitting room is empty, nothing but shelves upon shelves of their combined books and a few of Q's half finished tinkerings staring back at him from the coffee table.

Bond gingerly drops his jacket over one of the hooks by the door, reengages the alarm, and heads towards the hall on silent stockinged feet.

A quick glance reveals Q’s office to be equally empty, his server rack blinking back at Bond when he peeks inside. The leopard geckos in the tank next to Q’s desk flicks their tongues lazily at him. Bond nods to them before moving on.

The bedroom door is ajar, more sunlight streaming in through the wide bank of windows on the far wall. It seeps across the plush carpet, soaking into the abundance of plants that cover the sill.

He slips inside, stopping at the foot of the bed and just _looking_ for a moment. Q is curled on his side, so well cocooned in the velvety down of their dark green duvet that all Bond can see of him is his inky curls spilling out over the pillows. The cats are twined together against the base of his spine, pinning their lustrous eyes on Bond but still managing to look thoroughly aloof.

"Taking guard duty very seriously I see," he chuckles, giving both of them a quick scratch under the chin. Churchill rolls his fluffy white bulk dramatically and immediately starts to chirp, Schrodinger raises her striped head imperiously and merely accepts the attention as her due.

Bond leaves them purring and eases his way around the side of the bed, kneeling level with Q's head and running gentle fingers through his hair.

Q has slipped into a perpetual exhaustion of late, his sleepiness persistent and naps frequent. Bond has come home more than once to find him sprawled across his work bench, glasses still on and various mechanical detritus stuck to his cheek.

Bond draws the blanket down, baring Q's face, and feels a slow, warm smile steal over his mouth as Q's luminous green eyes blink sleepily up at him.

"Hello, darling" he murmurs, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Q's forehead.

"You're home early," Q manages around a truly impressive yawn. He snuggles further into his pillows, snaking a hand out to hook around the back of Bond's neck and smiling dreamily at him.

Bond takes another moment to just look at him. The faint sleep flush tinting his pale skin, the loose, happy curve of his mouth, the long sweep of dark lashes beneath his strong brows.

He's always more beautiful than Bond remembers.

"James," Q says, tugging gently until Bond relents and leans in again, pressing their mouths together in a slow, slick, affectionate, (if somewhat crooked,) kiss. Q tastes faintly of the ginger tea that Alec brought back in abundance from his last trip to Singapore, and his fingers play absently with the fine hair at the base of Bond's neck.

He's warm and utterly pliant when Bond pulls back, just a little, resting his forehead against Q's temple and bringing a questing hand up to push the blankets down further. Revealing the taut swell of Q's very pregnant belly.

"We missed you," Q murmurs, pressing warm kisses to the parts of Bond’s face he can reach.

Bond's heart gives a hard double thump against his ribcage and he leans in to press a kiss to the tip of Q's nose, his neck, the sharp jut of his clavicle, working his way down until his lips are pressed the stretch of his own threadbare Royal Navy shirt over Q's stomach.

"Is that so, little one?" He rumbles, rubbing a hand in slow, deliberate circles beneath Q's belly button. "Did you miss me?"

Their baby gives a tiny kick that Bond can feel against his mouth and Q lets out a small huff of a laugh.

"Athair missed you too, sweetheart," Bond assures, pressing a firm kiss against Q's stomach before turning his head and meeting Q’s smile with a grin of his own.

"They love you already, " Q says, mock grudging, though his expression is so fond it doesn't bear thinking about and his hand has found it's way back into Bond's hair. 

Bond winks at him and rises slowly to his feet, suppressing a wince at the protest of his stiff, abused joints. Every job hits him a little harder these days.

Q catches the expression and gives his hand a gentle tug.

"Come to bed, James," he says, and Bond has never been more happy to comply. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, aware of Q's eyes on him, the steady cataloging of his injuries.

He eases the shirt off and strips out of his vest one handed, revealing the deep, purpling bruises scattered over his abdomen and the angry welling of blood beneath the surface, ringing the top of his arm and shoulder.

Q gives a furious little hum as Bond skims out of his trousers, revealing the line of stitches running through the long, jagged stab wound high up on the outside of his left thigh. He doesn't say anything, just kicks the blankets further down, startling the cats from their perch and out the door, and beckons for Bond to lie down with him.

Bond crawls into bed, careful of Q's stomach, and draws Q into his arms, head tucked beneath Bond's chin and the comforting, terrifying weight of their baby pressed close between them.

“You look like shit,” Q tells Bond’s shoulder. Bond hums noncommittally, easing his bad arm over the curve of Q’s hip and rubbing at the perpetually sore base of his spine.

“I knew I shouldn’t have left so early,” Q continues, more to himself than to Bond, “R could have used more comms training, and lord knows what R&D are kitting you with.”

“Certainly nothing interesting” Bond smirks, reaching up and giving Q’s curls a gentle tug until he leans back to look at him. He’s agitated, but still incredibly sleep soft and tired. Bond can’t help but drop a kiss to the plush, pouting curve of his lower lip.

“I mean it, James” Q persists around another enormous yawn. “I’m going back in. It's too soon. They obviously don’t know what they’re doing if they’ve sent you back to me like th-” Bond cuts him off with another kiss, drawing Q’s upper lip into his mouth and giving it a little nip, pleased at the shuddering breath it earns him.

Q allows the distraction for a moment, closing his eyes and making stubborn grumpy noises that Bond steals right off his tongue and keeps for himself.

“Is this what you’ve been doing while I’m away?” Bond admonishes, words curling up in the space between them. “Worrying? Instead of lazing about dog earring all my books and growing our baby? Well, now you’ve gone and ruined all my pleasant daydreams.”

Q narrows his eyes and Bond kisses the frown from his mouth, good hand drawn once more to the swell of his belly. The life inside a magnetic north that has altered and expanded the course of his tired old heart.

There’s another hard little thump against the skin beneath his palm and his grin is wide as a shark.

Q rolls his eyes.

“They’ve certainly got your ego,” he complains, even as his hands drift down to toy with the band of Bond’s boxer briefs. “Always kicking up a fuss whenever anyone’s paying attention to anything other than them. Look at me look at me.”

“A terrible little monster,” Bond agrees with great solemnity. Q pinches him, laughter in his eyes.

“They deserve my ego, I suppose,” Bond contemplates, brushing the words over Q’s lips. “Since they’ll be beautiful and smart and strong like their Papa,” he continues, eyes intent on Q’s face. Q turns faintly pink and squeezes his eyes shut tight, holding the light of his happiness in.

“Look at me look at me,” Bond murmurs, and Q makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a hum and graciously allows Bond to have his mouth again.

“Flattery may get you anything you want elsewhere, Mr. Bond, but not here,” Q huffs, after being quite thoroughly kissed.

“Oh?” Bond quirks an eyebrow. “So it won’t matter if I tell you how absolutely enchanting you are?” He nudges his nose against Q’s and watches him try to maintain his frown.

“Stop that,” Q insists, jabbing his finger into an unbruised part of Bond’s sternum.

“Never,” Bond smirks, moving back a little and propping himself up on his good arm. He uses the change in position to kiss Q more thoroughly, pushing him gently back into the pillows, ignoring the pain in his shoulder to reach up and twine his fingers in all that gorgeous hair.

Q sighs happily and lets him have his way, relaxing into the pillows and bringing both hands up to cup his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones and teasing through the soft silver blonde spikes of his hair.

Bond’s hand is eventually and inevitably drawn downwards, pushing the shirt up over Q’s belly and stroking over the skin there. Coming to rest against the crease of Q’s hip, tugging at the soft flannel pajama bottoms that Q’s been living in for the past several weeks.

Q makes a vague sound of protest against his mouth when his hand stills there, rubbing against the underside of his belly, so he moves on, tugging his pajamas and underpants off all together, wrapping a broad palm around Q’s slim, pretty cock.

“Hhmm” Q hums, rolling his hips up as well as he can manage. Bond chuckles against his mouth, gives him a couple firm, slow pulls, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the head.

“What do you want?” He murmurs, trailing kisses away from Q’s lips, over his jaw, lingering at the soft skin behind his ear.

“This is good,” Q sighs, nudging his hips forward again. Bond smiles against his shoulder, drawing back and carefully leaning across to snag the lube from one of the bedside tables.

Q makes another sound of quiet discontent at the lose of contact, trailing his long fingers down over Bond’s back, around to the cut of his abs, giving his briefs an impatient tug downwards to get at the thick line of his cock.

Bond’s rumbling laughter trails off into a grunt when Q wraps a hand around his length and gives him a firm stroke from root to tip, drawing his foreskin up over the head and coaxing a bead of precome from the slit.

Q is all innocence, smiling beatifically up at him when Bond sits up again, and Bond smacks his thigh lightly, all sound and no hurt. He grins at the whine it earns him and turns back to his task, squeezing a good amount of lube into his hand and warming it between his fingers.

He sits gingerly back on his haunches for a moment, debating his options.

Q’s steadily progressing pregnancy has turned sex into an ever evolving, thrilling puzzle and Bond has made a study of keeping him comfortable and sated.

Penetrative sex is an enterprise in itself, and as much as the thought of Q in his lap, hair falling in his eyes and round belly rubbing against his abs as he rocks up into him, deep and hard, makes his cock jerk, he knows they’re both too exhausted for that kind of athleticism right now.

Q slits his eyes open, blown green half moons squinting up at him, blunt nails biting at Bond’s hips, drawing him out of his reverie.

“Impatient thing,” Bond chides, shuffling over so he’s kneeling between Q’s legs. He draws one wiry calf up and over his own undamaged thigh, moving forward so Q can hook his knee around Bond’s hip. It slots them snugly together, allowing Bond to take some of Q’s weight and keep the pressure off his lower back.

“I wouldn’t be impatient if you’d get a move on, old ma- _oh,_ ” Q breaks off mid-insult. He moans as Bond closes the last distance between them and gets a slick hand around them both. The noises he’s making go from impatient to pleasured and he shudders, letting his eyes drift shut again.

Bond’s lips part on a soft groan and he starts to move.

He rocks them together slowly, thrusting against Q in tandem with his slow, languorous strokes. As much as he loves how wanton Q can be, how hard and fast they can go, this is something else, wonderfully easy and tender and so, so good.

Bond rests his stiff, sore right hand over Q’s belly once more and Q brings his left hand up to link their fingers together. His other hand is clenching rhythmically in the sheets and he’s letting out soft little _ah, ah, ah_ sounds whenever Bond gets the tempo just right.

His eyes are squeezed shut and his curls are a dark halo around his head, the flushed, fecund expanse of him spread out for Bond to look his fill.

He’s lovely, so lovely.

The fullness of his belly beneath their linked hands draws Bond’s eyes again and again and he can’t help but dip his head down and press his mouth there, squeezing their cocks closer together in the process.

Q rewards him with a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, and a gasped “ _James”_ as his hips stutter against Bond’s own.

They rock together like that, skin catching and clinging under Bond’s hands. The hot slippery clutch of their bodies draws low wounded noises from them both, and Bond sucks lightly at the skin below Q’s navel, leaving little blooms of burst capillaries behind.

Bond finds the changes to Q’s body fascinating, the steady broadening of his waist from something Bond could nearly link his hands around to full and spherical. The subtle increase to the already shapely curve of his arse. The almost imperceptible widening of his slender hips.

Q is carrying high and Bond has thought more than once (privately, he values his life) that he looks a bit like he’s smuggling a basketball under his jumpers.

He’s been self-conscious and taciturn about the changes, hiding himself away from Bond’s voracious gaze with steadily more horrifying cardigans and pajama bottoms, but Bond has done his best to convince him he’s beautiful. That the sight of him full of their baby is absolutely adored.

Bond speeds his strokes, smearing precome and lube between them, rolling their hips more firmly together as he feels Q’s balls start to draw up against his own, the frequency of his gasps and moans increasing.

He moves back as far as he can within the circle of Q’s legs, letting go of his own cock for the moment so he can get his lips around Q’s, hand firm around the base as he swirls his tongue over the head and sucks him down.

Q _moans_ and the hand in his hair tightens convulsively, just the right side of painful and Bond smiles around his mouthful, tightening his grip on their twined fingers and hollowing out his cheeks. Q is babbling, a steady stream of “James, James, James, oh _, James_.”

Bond sucks harder, lips meeting his fist and the head of Q’s cock teasing against his soft palate. Q arches as much as his increased weight will let him, whining and straining forward. Bond pulls off with a slick _pop_ , pressing his mouth wet and open against the highest point of Q’s belly, stripping his cock fast and hard.

“Come on, Q, love, come on,” he murmurs, propping his chin against their joined hands and watching as Q turns his head into the pillows, giving one last low whimper before Bond feels the hot splash of come striping his own chest. He let’s his mouth pull into a smug grin as Q’s hand clenches hard in his hair for long moments before he let’s go entirely, sighing and petting at Bond in a clumsy, shell shocked kind of way.

He strokes Q through the aftershocks, releasing him when his moans take on a pained, oversensitized edge. He sits up carefully, sliding his thigh out from under Q’s sweaty, quivering one, pressing a closemouthed kiss to his knee before moving away to stretch out along Q’s side once more.

His cock is still rock hard against his hip, but the urgency had been all Q’s. Bond is content to rest their heads together, to draw Q into kiss after sloppy kiss, to grind his lube slick cock lazily against Q’s side.

“Dirty old fetishist,” Q mumbles against his mouth, patting his hand over Bond’s where it’s still clasped over the swell of his belly, pulling back to favor him with another fond, sleepy smile.

“Smartarse,” Bond sighs as Q’s hand slips down to wrap around his length once more.

Bond hides his face against the alabaster stretch of Q’s throat for a moment, bowled over by the tide of tenderness and arousal and protectiveness and all encompassing love that threatens to drag him under. God, but Q is perfect. Perfect and his.  

It only takes a dozen firm strokes from those devilish fingers before he’s coming, Q’s smile pressed against his temple. He bites gently at the knob of Q’s shoulder as he coats his hand and belly with come.  

Q hums, a thoroughly satisfied sound, and wipes his hand absentmindedly against the sheets before turning his bulk more firmly into Bond’s body and relaxing entirely against him.

Bond holds him close for a moment, feeling the beat of his heart slow and even out before forcing himself out of bed and into the washroom to grab a damp cloth to clean them both up. He pops a few paracetamol in deference to his injuries.

“Uhg,” Q bats at him halfheartedly when he returns to run the cloth over his stomach, wiping away drying come and pressing lightly at the small love bites he left there. He draws the shirt bunched under Q’s arms back down, smoothing it over his belly once more.

Bond leaves him be, tossing the cloth in the general direction of the clothes bin and climbing back into bed. He pulls the duvet up over them both and gathers Q close once more, burying his face in Q’s riotous hair.

Q curls a gentle arm over his side and Bond can feel his lips tilted up in a smile against his chest.

“What are you snickering about?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Q’s temple. Q doesn’t answer, just presses himself more firmly against Bond’s front, and he’s about to draw back to look at him when he feels it. The soft thumps against the skin between the two of them, like bubbles popping.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Q admonishes, doing an uncomfortable little shimmy and pressing a hand against his side.

Bond can’t help the grin that stretches across his own mouth once more, even as he lets his own hand drift down next to Q’s.

“None of that now, little one,” he rumbles, rubbing his hand in firm circles over Q’s side. “Papa needs to sleep. It’s a very hard job keeping you and I both safe, you know. He deserves a break.”

After a few long moments the kicks subside, and Bond meets Q’s suspiciously watery glare with a wink.

“Eve would probably never believe me if I told her you were a baby whisperer,” he says, affronted, and Bond chuckles, dropping a kiss against one high cheekbone.

“Too right, Q, too right.”

The sun has sunk even further in the sky and the afternoon light catches at Q's already shining eyes, making them dance as he gazes at Bond.

The sun really does look good on Q. It makes Bond want to take him somewhere warm and far away. Lure him into the water and sand, press his ear to the sun kissed skin of his belly and listen. Wants their child to be born somewhere along the gleaming gem of the Mediterranean. To be happy and free from the very start.

“Penny for them,” Q interrupts his musings, tapping his long fingers against Bond’s temple. He snatches them and pulls them down to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each whorl.

“I was thinking how thoroughly I’d enjoy debauching you on a beach somewhere.” Bond purrs, lazy with affection, content as a big cat.

“I want to take you to the sea. Both of you. I might even convince you to spend some time in the sun.”

Q snorts. “Not bloody likely.” Bond bites him.

“We can’t all tan,” Q says, quirking a sardonic eyebrow and tapping a finger against Bond’s own perpetually tanned forehead. “Some of us burn.”

“Vampire,” Bond murmurs, smothering his grin against the silky skin at the base of Q’s throat. Biting gently at his adam’s apple and sucking marks beneath his chin.

“I’m not the one doing the- _ah_ , doing all the biting,” Q insists, tired laughter in his voice. Bond eventually drags himself away from the impressive bloom of bruises he’s drawing to the surface beneath the hinge of Q’s jaw, and tucks them together again.

He slides one muscular thigh between Q’s lanky ones, hooking their ankles together, wrapping them up in each other from tip to toe. They lie there, just breathing, drifting closer and closer to sleep as the last of the afternoon light bleeds in through the windows.

Bond can hear the soft hum of the servers in the next room. The soft clicks of Q’s little robotic alarm clock hiding under the bed.

Somewhere in the depths of the flat, there is the suspicious absence of sound that undoubtedly signifies felines causing trouble.

It’s almost unbearably peaceful and Bond can feel the muted horror of the job drifting away from him, chased out to sea by the unquantifiable love of his little family.

With Q falling asleep in his arms, trusting and content, and the warm weight of their baby between them, he feels very nearly like a real person. He doesn’t deserve it and he’ll destroy anything that tries to take it from him.

But then, he’s always been a selfish man.

He presses his forehead against Q’s curls, breathes deep, and allows sleep to carry him away.

 

 ~♠~

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Athair is Gaelic for "Father"


End file.
